


Otecho Night Hangout

by q00zan



Category: HEARTBEAT (Video Game)
Genre: Funny, Multi, Not very canon, based on a Discord message, probably out of character, кто знает тот поймет)))
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 20:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18289664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/q00zan/pseuds/q00zan
Summary: Reader and Patch hang out at 3 AM.





	Otecho Night Hangout

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Just a quick warning - there's smoking a drinking in this fic.  
> Have fun!

You’re in the kitchen. It’s the one place in the house where a lot of serious conversations take place. Many things happen in the kitchen: hate and love, arguments and agreements. The kitchen is the place of gathering, the spot for all of your gastronomical and philosophical, even political needs.

In the background, a smaller music player was letting out faint lyrics of a song. It was quite weird, considering that the owner of this apartment sure did have better equipment to blast music from, so loud it could probably shatter several sheets of glass. But that just wasn’t it. It had no soul in it. The weak, cracking noise coming from a kitchen “radio”? It had everything.

Almost brought a tear to your eye. You listened to the lyrics. Time Machine, a classic band of old Solum.

_ “Here, a new turn of the road, _

_ And the engine roars! _

_ What does it bring to us? _

_ A rise or a fall? _

_ The deep end or a ford? _

_ You don’t know for sure _

_ Unless you take that turn…” _

 

You snap out of it. She’s right in front of you. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, the distant song reminding you of the timeless truth. You look up, to see her face. Right. You really can’t, the large chunks of her silver fringe in the way, covering her eyes. She keeps sniffing and growling, focusing on whatever she was doing. In a way, you probably have been out of it for an hour or so, spacing out, dozing off. It was fine. You can’t shake off the thought that she looked like that funny breed of dog with the hair in front of its eyes. Wait? Solum dogu don’t look like that!

“You know,” Patch said, fiddling with the tools in her hands, “I was, you know, married once, and stuff. Yeah. A real beauty, she was. Oh, the times we’ve had! Oh, how I miss her sometimes, you wouldn’t know, even if I told you!”

You express your interest on this matter.

“Oh, I miss her so, so much! But such is life. Now you know.”

You agree, then grab the pack of blue Binstons off the table, slide one out and light it up with that awfully coloured Smallmart-branded lighter.

“You got one?” Patch asked, despite it being quite apparent you had around twenty. You don’t deny it. She reaches out and grabs a cigarette, you bring the lighter close to her and light it. She takes a drag, smiling. “I’m giving it up, you know. For real.”

You nod. You’ve been giving up the last couple years, or so.

 

Carefully, you observe her at work. Frankly, you had no idea what she was doing. It looked quite beautiful, though, collected, calm, precise, calculated - like ballet. Her hands moving all around, body shifting from side to side to be more comfortable at work - it was a dance of its own.

Smoke was everywhere, and it smelled. But it smelled just the way you remembered it. Felt like home. Hanging out with her was fine.

“Yeah. You put the water on?” she asked suddenly, looking around the kitchen.

You confirm. You did put the water on to boil, but thirty minutes ago.

“Damn. Alright. What kind of sit-down is it, without tea. Gotta have some. You know, that one guy was like, hey, you! Could you do that, and this, and that, and this? And I said? Have we ever drunk tea together? No? Then I don’t even know you. Tea brings people together.”

You nod, although quite nervously. Friendship with her was valuable.

“It connects people more than Mokia does. You know what I’m saying?”

You knew. The damn commercials were all over the place, when you were young. Relics of the past - it’s something you and Patch both knew about. Quite soon, some years later, people wouldn’t even know the fun of throwing your phone anywhere and not breaking it, the joy of slapping someone’s slider phone and locking their screen, the sensory delight of using a flip phone, the fact that Dony and Serricson were once together. All will be gone in the sea of touch screens. Like defragmented and cache-cleared memory.

It almost brings a tear to your eye. That one eye you still have, the other one hidden behind a cool eyepatch - or so you wished it was. Long time ago, you sure loved Treasure Island.

Now, you had other treasures in mind. Other worries.

 

“Can you, like, hand me the bits?” she asks, dropping her hands to the table and looking at you in a frustrated, but not condescending way. You had a bond, the two of you. It wasn’t going anywhere.

You stand up, grumbling, and bring her a box of “bits” or whatever. She works her magic with those.

“It’s in our blood, you know. If you don’t know that, it means you just haven’t realised it yet. We aren’t cowards. 1881. You know what I’m talking about.”

You really didn’t know.

“What time is it?”

You answered honestly: it was 3 o’clock in the night.

“No, no, not like that. It’s time for the changes to take place, you know. We gotta get our guts together. We gotta make a move. Look closely. You put it in, like this. See? Fragmentation.”

You lean forward and look at her craft. Deadly, scary, frightening even - yet inspiring. You understood what she meant. Perhaps, you could even make one yourself, without her help, after this lesson.

“The beer cold yet? See the fridge.”

 

You stand up and go to check the fridge. The beer was there indeed - and that’s the only thing that was there. So empty a mouse would hang itself, you thought. Good thing it was just a saying.

Two cold bottles of beer hit the table, right next to the terrifying and unstable magnum opus of Patch.

“Thanks, bud,” she says, pressing the cap of the bottle on the edge of the table, then slamming her fist on it, cracking it open. She takes a big, mighty swig.

“Daltika Cooler,” she says, exhaling loudly after the sip.

“Be cool,” you would reply, smiling.

The old times were wild. Actual humans in beer commercials. Even animals? Now you’re lucky to see a machine in there. The soul, once again, was gone. Soul remained in the kitchen. It’s what kept you there. You laid your head on your hands set on top of the table, and closed your eyes, listening to her fingers tinker and fiddle with that explosive solution she was planning. It felt almost like falling asleep in class, hoping the sleeves you rested your beautiful face on wouldn’t leave an imprint of themselves on your pretty forehead, branding you as a lazy sleeper.

 

You felt her touch your head and ruffle your hair a bit. Despite it feeling so, so good, you protested. It was embarrassing, and only gods knew how dirty her hands were at that point, covered in powder, metal dust and other nasty stuff you didn’t want in your royal mane.

“Sorry. Uh. Right. So, basically… look. Look over here. You see this? We slap the fuse here. It’s basic as hell, but it gets the job done. One hundred percent guaranteed big boom. You listening?”

You roll your head and open your eyes to look at her. Still can’t make eye contact with all of that silly hair in the way. It was cute in its own way, though. You wanted to touch it, but she was too busy - you can’t disturb her like that. Moreover…

“You can’t rush art!” as she’d say, piecing the work together.

After a while, the alcohol gets to you. You poke her arm with your finger.

 

“Oh? Yeah. I used to be married, you know. A beautiful wife. It’s all gone now, though. I have a song about it. Wanna hear?”

You nod, smiling like an idiot. Hearing her sing was the best.

“Well, then go get the guitar. Initiative is punishable.”

Nevermind, you god damn hated her. For making you stand up. And you were just getting comfy, sitting on top of that old wooden chair! 

“It’s somewhere on the entresol. Don’t be shy. Just check it out. Can’t miss my guitar. Been a long time since strummed it and all,” she said loudly, so you would hear, climbing up to see if the guitar was there.

And it was. Dusty and old, but still so beautiful, so real. You carefully took it out of the storage and climbed down, then brought it to Patch, who was all drowning in her work. It was time to take a break, no doubt about it. She grabbed the guitar, her hands touching with yours in a split-second moment of romance, your heart jumps - and it was all gone straight away. It wasn’t the time, yet.

“I’m gonna sing a song, for all of you, about a broken heart” she said, slapping her fingers on the strings and testing the sound. It was off. It didn’t matter.

_ “I used to be married once, I tell you what, _

_ You have to keep your guard up, want it or not, _

_ She was all charming and a thrill, but there was something more,   
_

_ Soon she passed her bills to me, and said we were no more! _

_ Oh, what a lovely day! What have the good times gone?  _

_ Was it the football, the TV, was it the home improvement that I’ve done?” _

 

You clapped. Then you realised she wasn’t quite finished with the song, but stopped anyway, because you were rude and inconsiderate to start clapping.

“You know you don’t clap before the orchestra stops playing, right? Damn it. You’ve never been to a ballet and it shows…” she grumbled, getting back to work and putting the guitar aside. 

In the distance, you heard the neighbours from the floor above or below hitting something on the central heating radiator pipes, to make you and Patch - most of all - shut up and go to sleep. As if you would follow their selfish and foul advice. Want some privacy? Go rent a house kilometers away from town. Bourgeoisie.

 

You grabbed the guitar yourself now and picked the strings one by one, trying to make a melody out of it, attempting to remember some of the simplest bits out there you learned back in the day. The Sandpit Generals, of course, came to mind almost immediately, and you pulled on the strings shyly, singing quietly, just enough for Patch to hear it - but no one else.

_ “Why have you left forsaken me, what for?  _

_ Where is my hearth, my warm bed?  _

_ You don't see the kinship between us, _

_ But I'm your brother, a human being. _

_ You keep praying to your gods,  _

_ And they forgive you everything”. _

So touching. Brought a tear to your eye, and it to Patch’s eyes, too - you saw the salty drops fall into the powder pits below. Sorrow and heart-sick built devices, these would be.

“Damn it, the soul! The life in it!” she said, grabbing the bottle of beer and taking a big sip from it - she then almost theatrically slammed it on top of the table, making all the tools on top of it bounce up in the air. “It reminds me of the time I was still together, with her.”

You roll your eyes and hug the guitar, sitting back in the creaking, old wooden chair. You’ve heard this story countless times. In a way, you even knew her ex-wife better than her. Starting from favourite food, finishing with political outlook.

 

You take her hands - they were all dirty from the work, covered in who-knows-what, innocent bits of deadly crafts. It didn’t matter. You look her in the eyes - or the area where you assumed her eyes would be, covered by her silver hair. You gather the strength within you to tell her that, in fact, you’d love to hear more about her, not the people of her past. She freezes, both of you do, looking at each other, holding onto each other.

 

“Yeah… I suppose…” she apparently looked down at the hands, wondering. Soon enough, she slipped her palms out of your grip and wiped them on her trousers. “Are we out of booze?”

You mention at least five bottles more in the fridge.

“We’re gonna need one more then, it’s not equal. That’s not fair,” she says, standing up from the table.

You rubbed your face, trying to come back to senses - you got carried away, no doubt. You forget you just smeared the dirt from work all over your cheeks - probably some powder used in the deadly devices. Then, you tag along with patch, get your shoes on, your coat, too. Patch puts her hat on and fixes her fringe real quick, taking a look in the mirror. In it, she sees you in the background.

“Look at you. I know we’re not going to the theater, but you gotta look at least a bit presentable…” she says, turning around to you. She grabs you and rubs her sleeve on your face, wiping it. In a way, it worked. “There we go. Your face is your face.”

Both of you look at each other in silence for a bit, trying to process the last statement. Then you nod. It sure was.

 

You were then outside the apartment. Patch locks it, you make your way down chilly corridors of the building.

“Does Luca have the keys? Yeah, she has her own keys. But she forgets them often. Bet she’s hanging out with that handsome cat. No, not the one living on the ground floor. I mean Gremory, Klein Gremory…”

The coffeeshop on the ground floor was long closed. You were going to the local Smallmart, which thankfully worked 24/7. Somehow, she kept her left hand in her pocket at all times.

 

You spent a while in the shop, looking more than actually collecting items to buy, throwing jokes at each other, keeping up the talk. The cashier probably didn’t quite appreciate it, so you both went quiet during checkout. You got your beer and some more cigarettes. Both of you went outside, giggling, lighting new ones up, glancing at the night sky above - it was quite pretty despite hanging above a brightly-lit town - after all, there were forests all around it. A creative paradise for all the young people, situated in such a fine location. It never slept, but seemed so peaceful at night.

It was about to change. You followed Patch away from the shop, closer to the forest, a little river ran past. She moved the hand she kept in her pocket and slid one of the bombs out. You were shocked and asked what was it intended for.

“I dunno. Wanna go explosive fishing?” she asked, bringing it up to her mouth, where she held a lit cigarette. It set the fuse on fire, it sparkled bright. She held it in her hand, fearless, and looked at you.

At that point, you were just begging her to get rid of it. And she chuckled and giggled at you, before tossing it up in the air, quite high. You followed it with your gaze, and were pleasantly surprised to see it explode way, way up there. Waking up the forest, and everyone who slept in town. The explosion was… colourful.

It was a firework. She had been creating home-made fireworks all this time, tricking you. But you weren’t mad, you pointed up to the colourful sparkles and smiled.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Let’s go before we get our asses beat, arrested, then beat again.”

And you ran fast, really fast, trying to race each other to the apartment complex. You hurried up, genuinely believing that someone in this town cared enough to investigate.

 

Out of breath, you sit down on the stairwell in the apartment building. You sit close to each other, your hearts racing, still shocked, but you can’t stop laughing either. Patch lights up a cigarette, and you put one between your lips too. She puts her palm on the back of your head and pulls you in, making the lit tip of her cigarette touch yours, passing the fire on. You inhale several times. She lets you go, after a little bit.

Why even go home, it was comfy enough there. You cracked open a couple of cans, and sat there, chatting like usual. Soon, someone passed by - a couple.

“Hooligans. Look at you,” you heard someone talk. The voice was familiar. Then, you heard Patch laugh and responde.

“Dude… you drank a whole bottle of Mr. Proper yesterday, then chased a chicken around, intoxicated - literally.”

“First of all… it was my science partner. Just a bit unwilling. Second of all…” Luca leaned in and spoke a bit quieter, “Don’t embarrass me in front of Klein, you!”

Patch had a hiccup fit. Luca shook her head and went upstairs more, together with her friend. You laughed it all up. She was back later, quite soon, to get the keys from Patch - she forget hers at home, as usual. She seemed very nervous.

Patch rubbed her own eyes, still smoking. She was sighing heavily and sounded very emotional.

“They grow up so fast! I remember her like this!” Patch said, raising her hand up and showing how tall, apparently, Luca was. Then she repeated the gesture, the difference barely noticeable, “And now she’s like this! And she brings women home!”

You remind Patch that her Mogwai may as well be hundreds of years older than her.

She sniffled and took several big gulps from the can, calming down. You apologized quietly, saying you were only joking. She was obviously going silly, and so were you.

 

You laid your head on her shoulder and closed your eyes, she rubbed the side of her head on yours, letting you. Soon, you dozed off, and had nice, lovely dreams - ones that were just too good to be true - until you were woken up by the apartments’ concierge doing his rounds. He hit you both with a long stick, yelling and threatening to call the authority. Patch was about to fight back, yelling that she was the authority, but you managed to pull her out of it and head home. Luca and Klein left the door open for you to get back. You spent the rest of the night at the table, once again, in the kitchen, having some tea, pretending it would get you back to your senses.

It didn’t. Neither did you really want to feel otherwise.

You steal Patch’s hat and put it on, laughing, and she found it funny too. She asked you to trade something in return, and you did give her something you kept in your pocket - something quite valuable, but something you knew you could trust her to keep. Later on, of course, you returned the hat to her, yet she was hesitant to part with the item.

“Can I keep it?”

You thought why, and saw the calendar in the background hanging on the side of the fridge - you were going away, back home, soon. It didn’t mean parting ways forever, but time went slow without her around.

She seems happy when you tell her it would be fine to keep it. She grabs the guitar and begins playing again. And you listened to the song, felt the smoke-filled air, heard the the kettle working in the back, the TV broadcasting an unfunny show, the Mogwai in the room complaining about the noise, the neighbour from upstairs banging on the pipes, and the night through the open window.

And it was beautiful, full of soul.

**Author's Note:**

> lol


End file.
